Rose Pogonias

He is no dissenter from the ritualism of nature;
A SATURATED meadow, 
Sun-shaped and jewel-small, 
A circle scarcely wider 
Than the trees around were tall; 
Where winds were quite excluded, 
And the air was stifling sweet 
With the breath of many flowers,— 
A temple of the heat. 

There we bowed us in the burning, 
As the sun's right worship is, 
To pick where none could miss them 
A thousand orchises; 
For though the grass was scattered, 
Yet every second spear 
Seemed tipped with wings of color, 
That tinged the atmosphere. 

We raised a simple prayer 
Before we left the spot, 
That in the general mowing 
That place might be forgot; 
Or if not all so favoured, 
Obtain such grace of hours, 
That none should mow the grass there 
While so confused with flowers. 


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